The Way It Begins
by TravelingSong
Summary: "He's staring again. She can feel it. The intensity of his gaze almost palpable in the small motel room they are currently occupying. He's so sure she won't notice. But the truth is she does. Every single time."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This will be two or three chapters. I would love to hear your thoughts so please leave a review if you can. Thanks for reading my stories! Enjoy!**

* * *

He's staring again. She can feel it.

The intensity of his gaze, almost palpable in the small motel room they are currently occupying; her back turned towards him as she studies files scattered all over the shabby wooden desk.

He's so sure she won't notice. But the truth is she does. Every single time.

She never addresses it, never catches him by quickly turning around. Because it's not simply his eyes fixed on her- it's what accompanies it. The warmth that enlaces her, the reassurance. The mere fact that he's still there.

In the beginning she thought he looked at her with pity. Then, after a negotiation in Chicago had turned ugly, a bullet had grazed his arm and they had to retreat to one of his safe houses. Sitting across from him on the edge of the bathtub, she had cleaned the wound and bandaged it, only to find him looking at her with such gratitude and wonder that she could barely breathe. Then he had jumped up quickly, had thanked her for her assistance, and disappeared for the rest of the evening.

It took her twenty minutes to finally get up. It took her weeks to forget the poignancy in his eyes.

* * *

They have been on the run for months, have moved from lavish mansions to battered cabins, have driven through numerous states and flown to far-away countries. Escapes aren't supposed to be easy. .

After the first weeks had passed they managed to adapt a routine, managed to go from lucky improvisation to elaborate planning. He's got contacts in every part of the country, every part of the world, and it's impressive and intimidating and crucial to their survival.

They are together constantly, have both realized that privacy has become somewhat of a luxury. It only took them a couple of days to share a bed for the first time, mostly because she insisted, because she didn't think it was fair that he would have to make do with an uncomfortable couch while she was resting in a king size bed by herself. Because she didn't want to appear spoiled and ungrateful and because they were both adults and clearly these things don't have to be awkward. He had looked almost peaceful when he had woken up.

Most of the time he seems calm and reserved, tries to keep his distance and avoid constant hovering, even though he struggles. He would like to keep her close but he knows she needs some space, even with the FBI chasing them. He doesn't really know if she's still in shock or if she simply doesn't regret her actions. Maybe she's already come to terms with what she has done or maybe she never needed to. It's all rather complicated.

She learns something new about him every day. When she gets up for a glass of water in the middle of the night, she sometimes crosses paths with him in the kitchen and she cherishes these moments of innocence and discovery and domestic intimacy, just her and Red, discussing everything that comes to mind. Insomnia doesn't seem all that bad with good company, she thinks. And seeing Red in a plain white t-shirt and pajama pants is something else entirely. Something worth remembering.

He drinks a little too much sometimes, but she's learned when to leave him to it, has learned when to leave him alone. It seems like he is punishing himself though she doesn't quite understand what for. She's already fast asleep when he takes the last sip and whispers her name.

* * *

She breaks down twice.

The first time she feels too embarrassed to tell him. It's the middle of the night and she's by herself in a dark bedroom and she's weeping and doesn't know how to make it stop. Then she buries her face in a pillow and starts screaming at the top of her lungs, desperately hoping that Red won't hear her. It's an old house with thick walls and high ceilings and maybe her pain will stay isolated in this room with her and Red will never realize that she doesn't know how to bear the weight of it all. He's done everything he can. Maybe she just isn't strong enough.

The second time she can't quite escape quickly enough. They're having dinner, he's telling her stories of his travels, waits for her to call him out on his exaggerated fables, but she's not smiling. She's still, virtually frozen, except for her hands that are shaking nervously. He calls for her, doesn't know if she can hear him because she doesn't show any kind of reaction- _Lizzie?_ \- in fact she doesn't even blink- _are you alright?_ \- and then something snaps and Red is by her side, kneels down in front of her, takes her hand. She's crying and trembling, sheer panic written all over her face, and it's been years but he understands anxiety attacks all too well.

"Slow breaths, Lizzie. Just breathe. It's okay."

He stands, pulls her towards him, gently strokes her hair. He can feel her tears seep through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You'll be okay".

They remain like this for quite some time, until the attack subsides.

Then he carries her upstairs, carefully puts her down on the bed. Makes sure her breathing is steady, her body is warm.

"We'll be okay," he tells her as he presses his lips to her temple.

When she joins him in the kitchen the next morning, he can barely speak a word.

"Thank you, Red." she tells him.

"For what?" he manages.

She moves closer to him and kisses his cheek.

"Always saving me."

He opens his mouth to respond but she's already stepped past him, completely oblivious to the wistful smile on his face.

There's an ache inside him that bears her name.

If only he could explain.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic. Here's chapter 2; the final chapter 3 should be posted very soon as well. I would love to hear your thoughts so a review would be great. Enjoy!**

* * *

She's talking in her sleep. Again.

Well, mumbling rather than talking, but he enjoys listening all the same and in the small motel room he really doesn't have much of a choice either. So he remains close to her, alert and observant, ready to wake her if nightmares threaten to befog her subconscious. It's the least he can do.

The first time they had shared a bed was still very much engraved on his mind. He had been reluctant at first but she wouldn't hear it, of course the bed was big enough for the two of them, him on one side, she on the other, and a substantial gap in between. He had waited patiently until she had fallen asleep, until her breathing seemed slow and steady, and then he had turned around just to get a glimpse, her hair spread out over the pillow, the duvet rising and falling in consistent intervals. He had looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, indulging in the tranquility, the way it relaxed him, the simplicity of it all. Once the sun had risen he had closed his eyes, sleep, yes, finally, or at least the illusion of it, and that was how she had found him, content and seemingly well-rested.

And that's how they continued. Next to each other, if the lack of space ordered them to, wherever they were hiding, with his eyes set on her, his protective gaze enveloping her, _god_ , he could watch her for hours and never tire.

The habit of talking in her sleep, he had noticed that quickly, too. Sometimes they were just sounds, sometimes he could make out full sentences. One time she had called for him, had repeated his name, _Red_ , and he had stopped breathing then, unsure if this was a conscious plea or simply one of her dreams, and he had tried so hard to define her tone, the urge to understand just what she needed from him suddenly overwhelming. He had felt guilty in those moments because it all felt too personal, as if he was eavesdropping on her innermost personal thoughts. But he didn't have the strength to stop.

Looking out for her, whatever the extent, had always come naturally to him. But looking _at_ her, the way he could now in closed quarters, was a different experience, a more intimate one. He wasn't sure she noticed, he supposed she did at times, but seeing her and learning about her was so strikingly appealing to him. He knows now how she sounds after waking up, how her skin glows in the soft light of dawn, what she wears to bed, what she likes for breakfast, what authors she favors, her interest for poetry, her preference for working out late at night; he knows all her peculiar idiosyncrasies and he stores every bit of information carefully.

She caught him once. They had gone into a negotiation ill-prepared and ill-equipped- not necessarily by mistake but because life on the run had limited their options and Chicago simply wasn't the right environment for those kinds of mistakes- and had barely managed to leave before things got out of hand, until he had felt a stinging pain and the unmistakable crimson liquid run down his arm. A bullet, thankfully not on target. Two hours later he had found himself on a chair in the bathroom of his safe house, with Lizzie seated in front of him on the edge of the tub and a first aid kit by her side. _It's nothing_ , he had told her, _really, I'm fine,_ but she had inspected his wound nevertheless, had insisted on tending to his injury, at least bandage it. And while she had done so, carefully and gently and skillfully, he couldn't take his eyes off her, because he had noticed something in her expression that had never been this salient. Concern. Deep and honest concern. _They could have killed you_ , she had said almost absent-mindedly, _they could have_ \- and then her voice had trailed off and she surveyed her work, nodded and raised her head, _that wasn't too bad, was it?_ , and then her gaze had met his and something had shifted then in that very moment, how they had stared at each other, those heavy seconds of silence.

He had left the room so quickly, he might have imagined the whole thing. He hadn't even been sure if he had thanked her. He needed to be more careful.

She rarely seems distraught, if anything she seems too accepting of the situation. But he rarely inquires. He figures if the time is right, she will come to him. At least that's what he's hoping for. It's casual now, the way they interact with one another, like colleagues maybe, or friends, or partners, whatever the hell that means. During one of those rare nights they spend apart, both in their own room because the spacious safe house allows it, he can hear her muffled screams and he sits upright in his bed, frozen to the spot, with an almost unbearable ache submerging every fiber of his being. _I did this_ , he thinks, _I am responsible for her suffering_. He doesn't sleep a wink that night. But he squeezes her shoulder the next morning while she's eating breakfast in the kitchen, that omnipresent craving for physical contact he rarely yields to, especially not with her, and she is almost certain she understands. And she's grateful. More than he can ever know.

* * *

He cooks. No, he doesn't merely cook, not like she does anyway, precooked comfort food with no nutritional value. Instead he chops and tastes and seasons with skill and alacrity and ease, traits that only come with years of experience, and she's fascinated by it, how he moves from cabinet to cabinet, how he navigates. He must have spent a lot of time in this safe house they're currently staying at, or at least that's what she assumes by watching him, because he never pauses, doesn't have to search. She's leaning against the door frame with a cup of tea in her hands, somehow clinging to this fantasy of a normal life, and if he's heard her come in he doesn't show it. He's wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and there's absolutely no reason for it, not in this familiar setting, they've spent all day at home planning their next moves, but of course he looks impeccable and of course she couldn't possibly compete with that in her dark jeans and comfortable knit sweater. She has no idea what he is preparing but it smells incredible and she realizes she has yet to find something he is truly bad at, except for maybe his complicated relationship with modern technology, _triangulation, satellites, crypto-whatever_ _,_ as he called it once, in another lifetime when things were much easier. When she wasn't a fugitive. And yet, somehow, despite all logic, she feels safer now. She feels cared for.

"Can you teach me?"

He turns around somewhat startled, surprised to see her standing in the doorway.

"To cook?"

"Well, to chop the ingredients the way you do. Let's start with that maybe, okay?"

"Okay."

He wonders how long she has been watching him, if at all. He wonders if this is a good idea.

Liz places the mug on the table and walks towards him, the old hardwood flooring creaking beneath her bare feet, and she stops in front of the counter, inspects the different components spread out on the cutting boards, the large pot on the stove.

"What are we making?"

"Minestrone soup. Unfortunately all that's left to prepare now is the basil and oregano I got yesterday, but we might as well start with something easy."

He steps aside to give her some space and picks a handful of leaves from the pots on the windowsill before spreading them out on the cutting board, evenly divided, then pulls two large knives out of one of the drawers to his right, puts one down in front of her and holds on to the other. She picks it up rather hesitantly, careful not to come into contact with the razor-sharp blade, and he steps closer to stand next to her, shoulders brushing, ready to instruct.

"Now, the easiest way to chop herbs shaped like this is by creating little stacks. Put the leaves on top of one another," he watches as she mirrors his actions, "yes, exactly, and now simply watch my movements for a bit. Try to see how I hold my knife, Lizzie. The key to efficient and even chopping is how comfortable you are with the knife."

He cuts in swift motions, makes it look sophisticated, if there's such a thing, and she watches the blade glide effortlessly through the green leaves without ever leaving the wooden surface and it's done so quickly that she thinks she's missed half of it. She's still staring at his hand when it stills, the knife resting now. It's her turn.

Somewhat awkwardly she tries to imitate his grip and begins cutting, but she can't seem to get it quite right, until she suddenly feels warm and notices him standing behind her.

 _May I_ , he asks, and she just nods, and he extends his arm and places his hand over hers, arranges her fingers so she can hold on to the knife more comfortably, her thumb guiding the blade, her cutting motions circular and smooth. She can't really concentrate on any of this because her focus is completely and utterly on his steady breath on her neck, he's virtually looking over her shoulder and if she would turn her head the slightest bit at this very moment, just a little bit to the right, then her lips would…

And then he steps away, without warning and all too sudden, and her hand feels cold.

"I'll set the table. Seems like you learn very quickly, Lizzie."

But his voice sounds strained and not much like himself and as she watches him move through the kitchen, tasting and seasoning the soup, retrieving plates, his earlier placidity seems to have vanished. He doesn't speak another word.

If it were anyone else, this would feel an awful lot like rejection.

And yet she suspects it's the exact opposite.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sorry for the delay but I was on vacation and didn't really get a chance to work on this. This is the final chapter. The reviews have been incredible, so thank you. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much, and please leave a comment if you do. Cheers!**

* * *

The soup is delicious and she tells him so, compliments the seasoning and his culinary skills and the wine he picked, but he brushes it off with a swift motion of his hand, acts like it's nothing special, and she thinks he's embarrassed by her praise and she wonders why he's never really as confident around her as he is with everyone else. Raymond Reddington, everything seems to come natural to him, his talents are manifold and eclectic, he can carry any conversation no matter the subject, he is quite brilliant in fact, brilliant and arrogant and such a pain at times and yet he is obviously struggling to deviate his attention from the rim of his plate to her. She doesn't understand his behavior, can only guess, and there's something oddly endearing about a criminal mastermind acting shy and insecure, but it's not what she expects from him. It's not what she wants, either. She wonders if she has done anything wrong, if she has upset him in any way, because this just won't do, she wants him to look at her, she doesn't want to sit in silence. He's the only company she has. She couldn't bear losing it, losing him. She doesn't want it to be awkward between them. The truth is she misses him even when he's with her. And that should maybe frighten her as well.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Stories, yes, his expertise.

He raises his head then, stares at her. Takes his time before he responds.

"There was this woman in Sicily-"

"There's always a woman, isn't there?" It's such an unnecessary remark and she scolds herself for interrupting him.

 _Yes._

 _There's always a woman._

He just nods and smiles. She doesn't understand how right she is, he thinks. She doesn't understand that the only woman that matters to him is sitting right across the table.

"There was this woman in Sicily, well, in a little village right off the coast. One of my business ventures had gone wrong and I was forced to go into hiding for a few weeks. Not the worst hide-out I've ever been stuck at, I'll admit. It was quite delightful, really. This woman, Ilaria, she taught me everything I know. There wasn't much to do except for eating and I wanted to be helpful and find a way to thank her for being a gracious host, so she started teaching me about Italian cuisine, cooking techniques, everything you can imagine."

There was a fondness in his eyes she had barely witnessed.

"If we ever end up near Palermo, we will make a detour and I'll introduce the two of you. Her lasagna is a revelation."

He pauses then, takes another sip from his wine.

"The soup was alright, Lizzie. It was the expertly chopped basil and oregano that made it special."

She feels warm suddenly, and it's quickly spreading through her veins. She blames it on the alcohol. She knows she's lying to herself.

"Can I ask you something, Red?"

"No, unfortunately I didn't prepare dessert."

He hasn't lost his sense of humor. Good.

"Why did you leave earlier?"

"What do you mean, Lizzie?"

"In the kitchen. Why did you just leave me standing there?"

He's carefully deliberating his answer, she can tell, but she doesn't want empty excuses. Just an explanation that rings true.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Why would you think you made me uncomfortable?"

"I assumed that-"

"You didn't, Red. I enjoyed our cooking lesson. I was hoping we could maybe do it again some time. Give it another shot."

His eyes are as bright as she has ever seen them; his voice is all hope and gratitude.

"I would love to."

* * *

She is settled next to him on the couch, not quite touching him, but not quite out of reach either. He had seemed surprised when she had suggested they could share a night cap but the elegant décor of their current safe house virtually demanded it, the polished wooden flooring, the crackling fireplace, and it's not like he needed a reason anyway.

Out of all the residences they have occupied in the last few weeks, this one just might be her favorite. There's something inherently homely about it despite the obvious wealth that clings to its walls, there's bookshelves and photographs and a piano in the living room, there's a vastness that allows her to pretend things are going just fine. She hopes they won't have to leave in the morning.

They sit in companionable silence, both with a glass of Scotch in their hand. He seems mesmerized by the fire in front of him and she gets a chance to observe him from the side, just for a moment at least, before he'll notice. There's so much she wants to say to him but she doesn't know where to begin.

"I'm scared," she tells him.

"I know." He takes another sip before he places his glass on the table and turns around to face her. She waits for more, some kind of affirmation, but instead he reaches out and tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingers there before continuing.

"You're strong, Lizzie. You're so very strong. And no matter what you are going through now, you will prevail in the end. I promise you that."

"How can you possibly know that?" she asks and her voice is too soft, too quiet.

"Because I know you, Lizzie." That's all he offers her. "Because I know _you_."

Slowly he leans back against the cushion and she's suddenly speechless, watches as his hand rests in the space between them and she grabs it, doesn't even think about it, and intertwines his fingers with hers, very carefully avoids his gaze through it all.

She can't imagine life without him.

"Can I stay in your room tonight?" she finally manages and she doesn't want to sound desperate but she can't bear the idea of being by herself after everything that has just transpired between them, however arbitrary it might be, however true.

When she turns her head she finds his eyes fixated on her, and there's something raw and uninhibited, something blatantly honest in them, and she tries to remember if anyone has ever looked at her like this and before she can explain, he simply nods.

"Okay."

That easy. Just this once.

* * *

She wakes to darkness and an empty bed.

Her mouth is dry and she rises to get something to drink, rises to find out where Red is. She had fallen asleep quickly, can only remember the way he had told her goodnight, his voice low and sad, before he had turned off the light. She had almost asked him to come closer so she could feel his warmth. Almost.

It's late or early or somewhere in between when she descends the stairs, she really just wants some water, and then she hears it and she thinks she must be imagining it. The soft cadences of a piano, a record maybe, but no, this sounds too real and maybe she should go back to bed or get her gun, maybe sleep deprivation leads to hallucination, and she should really call for Red.

Unless...

As she enters the living room she spots him, back towards her.

She doesn't want to disturb him and she certainly doesn't want him to stop, it's quite beautiful and how hadn't she known that he could play like this? That he could play at all? Why even keep such talent a secret?

Slowly she takes step after step until she is standing right behind him and he must have noticed her, how couldn't he, but he doesn't even flinch, simply continues playing, and she sits down next to him on the small piano bench, their legs touching, and just remains still. She watches his fingers, the way they skillfully glide from key to key, and when he plays the final note she feels like she has just lost something of great importance.

"Go on?" It sounds a little too pleading. She should have thanked him first for not sending her away.

He looks at her, somewhat wistful and tired, a faint smile appearing on his lips before he resumes, and she recognizes it immediately, she knows this song, its title, and for some reason she knows he means it.

 _Liebestraum_ has always been one of her favorites.

It's no longer the music she focuses on, no, it's the man beside her, his feelings that he guards so carefully, and she runs her fingertips over his neatly cropped hair, down his cheek, his neck, the ghost of a touch, and she loves the way he closes his eyes as if nothing will ever feel as good, as if he's dreaming, and he stops playing then, tries to steady his breathing, he's nervous and unprepared.

 _Lizzie._

It sounds like a melody.

And he moves a mere inch, the contact gone, and he looks pained.

"Red, look at me."

And so he does, concentrates on her whisper.

"What are you so afraid of?"

And she leans in without giving him a chance to respond, kisses the corner of his lips, and he turns just the tiniest bit, and that's it, that's enough.

He sighs, pulls her closer, it's something new, something intimate, something he can't quite process in its entirety because it's quite literally breathtaking.

He never wants it to stop.

When she withdraws, his eyes are still closed. He opens them reluctantly.

"Let's go back to bed," she says. Takes his hand, but he doesn't move.

Instead he traces the scar on her wrist and she shivers, the way he touches her is impossibly gentle, and her pulse quickens and she knows he senses it, too.

"Lizzie." This is so much more than he deserves. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

"I know, Red. I know."

He looks at her like this can't be real. Once again presses his lips to hers, savors every movement and sound, the reality of it all. Her skin is so soft.

"Okay. Let's go back to bed."


End file.
